


Yours

by rehaniah



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Kink Meme, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehaniah/pseuds/rehaniah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another Prompt Fill for a (very!) old prompt on the Kmeme. The prompt required Fenris Dom-ing F!Hawke but without a non or dub-con situation. (Come on, how could i resist?! ;))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt is here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11381.html?thread=44779637%20-%20t44779637 where Anon wrote: "I don't think I've ever seen a fill where Fenris was Dom-ing F!Hawke, its always the other way around.  
> I just get the sense that Fenris, a guy who has been enslaved and used, would have to be really dominant and in control to feel comfortable and enjoy sex  
> So what I want if Fenris completely dominating F!Hawke, but he should still be concerned for her comfort and pleasure (no: he had his way and left).  
> Bonus: if Hawke is surprised at first but actually likes it as the night goes on.  
> Squicks: noncon, dubcon, bathroom stuff"
> 
> The fic is more descriptive than graphic, just to warn, mostly because I do have a habit of making these things waaaaay longer than they should be, so I have to be firm with myself otherwise I'd just never finish it. Please also forgive any spelling errors, etc. I do try to edit it as best I can but I have another bad habit which generally means that if I go over my work too much, I get too worked up over it and end up never posting it over fears that, well, it sucks. *sighs*. Ah, the joys of being an anxious author!

The fierceness of his kiss when he had grabbed her head had given her an indication of how he would be. Yet, given his lack of experience –or at least, lack of remembrance– regarding the particular areas of intimacy she hadn’t quite expected him to be so forceful, so sure in his bearing and actions when it came to the situation itself.

Indeed, he’d allowed her to impel him from the hallway to her room without reluctance, but as soon as they’d reached the bed, their lips still entangled heatedly with each other, he’d quickly reversed their positions.

To say she’d been surprised when he’d suddenly broken the kiss so as to shove her body sharply back onto the mattress would have been rather an understatement… She’d automatically figured that she’d be the one guiding him, but the way he’d swiftly loomed over her so as to roughly retake her lips had caused her to quickly rethink her assumption.

Nevertheless, his kiss was so intoxicating –his whole _being_ was so intoxicating to her– that she didn’t have much time to dwell on the phenomenon further, as her body reflexively arches up towards him, her legs moving to cradle his lithe hips.

The kiss continues for some time, their tongues tasting and teasing each other, almost wrestling in their fervency.

It’s him who breaks the kiss first and she can’t help but moan in disappointment. She swears she feels his lips smile as he moves to press his mouth against the line of her jaw, his teeth nipping at her skin as he works his way down to the column of her throat.

Had she felt able to speak coherently, she may have expressed how good what he was doing felt – since a far-off part of her was still thinking that it might help if she praised him; but since he seemed to be more than secure in his advances without any commendation on her part, she quickly gave up on the idea.

When his hands suddenly reach down so as to grab hold of her legs to hoist them up further, allowing his lower half to press flush against her own, it causes a gasping shudder to escape her, but he pays it no heed, remaining singularly focused on stimulating the sensitive flesh of her neck.

Her fingers are trying to undo the buckles at his shoulders, endeavouring to remove his armour so as to experience just what he felt like without the almost-constant covering, but his mouth was managing to distract her so much, whilst his hand kept her chin held firmly upwards so as to give his lips uninhibited access, that she wasn’t getting very far.

She lets out a stunted yelp when his teeth abruptly sink into her shoulder. The pain is sharp, piercing, but before she can truly comprehend it, it’s gone to be replaced by the oh-so soothing sensation of his tongue lathing and sucking at the tender spot. All she can do is let out an incoherent murmur that fell somewhere between a hiss and a plea.

Her fingernails return to the frustratingly tough buckles and then, finally, she feels his breastplate come loose.

But he doesn’t pull back, doesn’t even shift his weight. All he does is move his lips down to her clavicle and continue his relentless, mind-numbing, assault.

“Fenris,” she chokes out – and sweet Maker, did her voice always sound like that in these situations? So needy and lustful and mortifyingly _humiliating_? She certainly couldn’t remember it ever sounding that bad before – what in all Thedas was this elf doing to her?!

He doesn’t seem to take any notice of the wanton mangling of his name, but it does have the effect of making him pull back from her just enough so as to shrug off his loosened armour. Her hands automatically go to help pull the bulky safeguard free – _Maker, she was acting so eager_.

Fortunately, the interruption gives her lust-drowned mind just enough time to start working again, enough to say to her soon-to-be lover, as the breastplate is finally tossed aside by their combined hands, “You’re not how I expected you to be in this situation.”

Clearly having been about to return to his self-imposed task of tasting every bit of her neck with his tongue and teeth, the white-haired head suddenly rears back to look at her. The deep green eyes were more intense, more full of _fire_ , than Hawke had ever seen them and the very sight was enough to send a jolt straight through her core… But now they were staring at her in a way that held both perplexity and something akin to doubt. “What do you mean?” he asks her.

Despite the fact that she hadn’t meant her statement to come across as anything other than a simple –and one would have assumed _logical_ – observation, Hawke finds herself stumbling under the weight of his gaze. “Well, err,” she hesitantly tries to explain, suddenly feeling remarkably bashful in front of him – another first for her. “You know, I just thought that maybe you’d be, err, different and less… well… I mean, since this might be your first time…and such.”

Without thinking about it, she finds that her hands have anchored themselves on his waist, her unconscious mind clearly worrying that her words had somehow offended him, and which would cause him to withdraw – something she couldn’t bear to think about.

Nevertheless when he speaks, his voice remains as firm and unyielding as ever. “Whilst I may not retain any first-hand memories of this, between what my master and fellow slaves got up to, I have knowledge enough so as to know what to do. Are you trying to tell me that you’re not feeling pleasure?” It was obvious that she had been –and still was, as irrefutably evidenced by the elevated temperature of her body– so his question comes out sounding far more like a challenge than an enquiry.

“Yes, of course,” she hastens to assures him. “I mean: It’s _you_ , so obviously I would be – I mean, I am.”

She reaches out to run her fingertips over his cheek. Her touch is tender, sincere, and –to her relief– it seems to soothe away some of the fierceness from his expression. He blinks down at her with slow consideration. “I do not want you to… be uncomfortable,” he hesitantly states. It was the first time that he’d shown hesitancy up until now.

“Oh, I’m not,” she reassures again, really not wanting to give him the impression that she was having second thoughts or that she didn’t want the situation to continue – because she _definitely_ did. “It’s just… different, I suppose,” she tries to explain. “I guess I’m not used to, well, having someone so… dominant.”

The intricately tattooed elf glances away briefly, seeming to consider his next words carefully before voicing them. “I have been the subservient one for as long as I can remember. When I left that life, I promised myself I never would be again. I do not think I am able to adjust that even for this situation, even for you.” His answer is solemn but not apologetic. Hawke knows that this is who he is.

“And I don’t want you to,” she interjects before he can say anything further. Her palm cups his face, trying to do so gently lest she put pressure on his scars. She holds his eyes with her own. “No matter what you have to do or what you want to do, Fenris, you have my permission – my _unequivocal_ permission and agreement,” she tells him fervently, openly. “I just want to be with you, however that may come.”

Something deep within his gaze seems to darken even as it slips away from her. When it comes, his reply is slow, the words very deliberately spoken. “I’m not sure if it would be… _wise_ for you to give me your unreserved consent. You don’t know the things I’ve thought about doing to you.”

The statement was ominous, as much as chastisement of himself as a confession to her... And though she gets the distinct impression that it should have made her wary, fearful even, the fact that it came from _him_ , spoken in _his_ voice as _his_ breath played over the thumb she’d unthinkingly moved to rest against the supple flesh of his bow lips, their perfection only accentuated by the blue-tinged scars, she didn’t experience fear. She experienced _excitement_ ; a palpable tremor of desire that thrummed through her entire body like nothing she’d experienced before.

“What is it you’ve thought about doing to me?” Her voice didn’t even sound apprehensive. It sounded thoughtful, intrigued… _aroused_.

It’s clear that he hears it as well. Because as his gaze slips back to her, there’s a flash of surprise, followed quickly by something akin to appraisal as he scrutinises her face. It doesn’t take long before he’s taking in the state of the rest of her body; most notably, the obvious heaviness of her breathing and the blush still markedly visible over the collar of her tunic.

“You really wish to know what I’ve dreamed of with regard to you?” His voice was calm, steady, but deeper than she’d ever heard it, so much so that it was practically bordering on a growl. _And damn it all if that didn’t just set her nerves even more alight._

“I do.” The words have left her before she’s even had time to recognise their existence, let alone process them. Yet, for all their unrestraint, they were true.

Wholeheartedly true.

The mesmerizing green eyes blink at her slowly, smoothly. And it’s then that she notices that they have somehow transformed from merely bright… to _glittering_.

Within a mere heartbeat, Fenris’ entire bearing seems to alter. It was as if her words, her assertion, had managed to unlock something previously held back.

Or hidden.

He brings his form forward, virtually _slinking_ , to all but loom over her slighter one, his arms stationing themselves resolutely on either side of her head. In the space of a single moment, he had caged her in, eclipsing the entire world from her view so that there was nothing left in her field of vision but him. He lowers his face down to hers, closer and then closer still.

At first he does nothing but simply hold her gaze. Only after several heartbeats –during which time she remains helplessly silent, so nerve-rackingly captivating did she find his sudden change, his sudden closeness– does he move with unhurried poise to let his face, his lips, glide over the contours of her cheekbones, her eyelids, her hairline, letting his warm breath fan out over her… He seemed to be doing nothing more than simply breathing in her scent, and even though the action in itself is so innocent, she swears it’s the most erotic thing he’s done so far.

And then he speaks. And if she figured she was aroused before, it was nothing compared to her body’s reaction to the obscenely low murmur of his speech now; rumbled directly, _precisely_ into her ear so that she could feel every word formed as it fell from his lips, only to be caught and taken into her body, her own mind.

“You really wish to know what has been going through my mind with regard to you?” he hums against her, the words vibrating in the chest now pressed so firmly atop her own. “You really wish to be regaled with my fantasies and the hours I’ve spent thinking of you since we first met? That night when I watched you slaughter the life from my enemies and then finally turn to me, covered in their blood.”

Hawke knows that she really – _really_ – shouldn’t be reacting the way she was to what he was describing, but even at the most average of times his voice was hypnotic. _Now_ it was nothing short of utterly _sinful_ ; bleeding into every one of her senses and causing her mind to melt, her toes to curl, her breathing to strain.

And when he flicks his tongue out to dart inside her ear, she cannot hope to keep quiet.

Her moan is loud, a helpless testimony of wanton response. Her body wants to move, to squirm against his in instinctive reaction to the sensations he was causing… but he was refusing her, continuing to hold her down with the weight of his own frame. It was a torture to have what she craved so close and yet be unable to do what she wanted with it. As if in response to her feeble frustration, she feels his mouth smile as he continues his forceful confession. “You truly desire to know what it is I’ve imagined doing to that same body that puts itself in harm’s path so often, that seeks danger like a flightless bird surely seeks the skies above? You want me to describe to you how I’ve imagined every inch of your flesh uncovered before me, stripped bare and laid utterly exposed to my will, my every whim?”

And now his hands are moving; moving down her body, flowing with caressing deliberateness over her neck, her breasts, her waist… until he reaches the sash of her tunic. And then that is being undone, quickly, almost harshly compared to everything up until now.

She whimpers as the slightly chilled air from the room suddenly touches her and then arches up –or at least tries to– when his gauntlets, still sheathed over his lyrium-tainted hands, reach out smooth their way leisurely, possessively, over her now exposed midriff. The metallic, talon-like gloves are even colder than the room’s temperature and it was agony – a cruel, startling, electrifying agony to have those same contraptions which were so dangerous, so deadly, so _like him_ , pressed so carefully, so reverently against her pale, fragile skin.

“Fenris,” she gasps – and oh, how she yearns to get closer to him; to experience his body as he was experiencing hers but his voice had made her so weak, was _still_ making her so weak, so that all her hands could do was clutch helplessly onto his shoulders, flexing and reflexing her trembling fingers as he carried on speaking at her ear even as his hands played over her flesh like it was the most precious of instruments.

“Do you want to know, Hawke, about how I have visualized laying my lips upon every part of your flesh just so I could see what expressions you would make as I did so? How I have wondered and fantasized and dreamed about what sounds you would make as I placed myself inside you, as I made myself part of you. Whilst it is true that I may not remember my previous experiences, I assure you I am far from naïve with regard to such things.”

His hands reach her breasts, suddenly encasing their entire weight with abrupt fierceness. Her liquefied puddle of a brain is too far gone to even be ashamed of the sounds that were flowing from her mouth; wanton, meaningless noises interspersed between disjointed implorations of his name. Through the fabric of her breastband he strokes his thumbs over her nipples, his touch returning to placidity, even as the small tips strain evermore obscenely against the thin gauze.

His mouth was still ghosting about her face; playing in and around her ear before strumming against her neck, occasionally coming to rest, ghostlike, over her own mouth. His every movement was only adding to the utter annihilation of her previous assumption that she would be the one leading, the one who would be drawing the reactions from him. _Oh, how she’d underestimated her unique, forceful, irrepressible, beautiful, demanding, consuming, breath-taking elf..._

And through it all he kept on talking to her, sounding almost as intoxicated as she was, but infinitely more disciplined about it than she could ever hope to be: “You have captivated so much that I have spent hour after hour envisioning how you would look like tied down and utterly at mercy. I have pondered so meticulously on what would make you cry out my name the loudest, what would make you whisper it, shout it, plead it.”

Without warning the fabric at her chest is torn away with such ferocity it was as if it had personally offended him, but when his touch returns, it remains as soft as before, the contrast only seeming to heighten Hawke’s realisation that her lover was intent not on just taking her body, but _possessing_ it entirely.

Almost every exhale now was a lurid, keening moan. She bites her lip to try to stem the embarrassing flow – but all that gets her is a sharp snatch of teeth against her shoulder. “ _Ahh!_ ” she cries out in both surprise and pain at the sudden action, but almost immediately the sting is being soothed away by the feel of his tongue, tenderly caressing the abused spot with distinctly gentle strokes.

  
“Don’t hide anything from me,” he says, breaking from his licentious reverie in order to reprimand her. For all the crooning lilt of their tenor, she can tell that the words are most definitely an order – _and Sweet Maker, if her body became hotter she would surely burst into flames._

Without waiting for any kind of response from her –his command was _not_ a question after all– he effortlessly resumes his exposition. “You know that I have never known what it is like to have complete power over someone, complete control, so you must be able to imagine just how enticing that notion seems to me.” His voice was almost meditative in its erudition, uttered in between the warm lathes of his tongue, now evolved into something more tantalizing than soothing. “But it’s not merely because I crave some sort of revenge for my years as a slave. If I had wanted that, I could’ve sated such desires long before now.”

He had begun to move his lower half infinitesimally –so dammed diminutively– closer to hers but not nearly as much as her quivering legs, so tightly intertwined around his own, were urging him to. His gauntleted fingers were continuing to pluck and twist and rasp against her nipples and she knew that she was so close now: she was so close and he had hardly even done anything –or allowed _her_ to do anything!– but that recognisable wave was still building inside her; still swelling and rising and gaining speed with each second that swirled by, lured forth by the resonance of his voice and the taste of his breath and the feel of his body as it purred against her.  

“No, it’s because it’s the thought of you. You, Marian, who’ve managed, so effortlessly, to captivate me with your strength, your integrity, your beauty. I have seen the way others look at you and it makes me furious beyond reason, beyond words, beyond thought. Because I want you for my own.” One of his hands finally peels itself away to slither down. Down and down until he’s at the waistband of her house skirt to hover there so lightly, so teasingly and temptingly close whilst making no move to go any further until his confession has been drawn to its completion. “Because I don’t want to share you with the world. I want to take you and mark you and _claim_ you so thoroughly, so deeply, that there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind just who you belonged to.”

And as he rears back so as to bring his face fully back to hers, his eyes are the brightest and fiercest and most glorious that she’s ever seen them. Whilst his voice is the epitome of dark intensity as it lays his final offer at her feet: “So tell me, Marian, do you still trust me enough to give me your complete permission?”

She can barely think. She can barely speak. She can barely _breathe_ , yet she promises through it all, in a voice as breathless and ardent and wholeheartedly sincere as her trembling body: “You can take it, Fenris. Take it all. Because I _am_ yours. Only yours.”

His smouldering eyes hold her so infinitely bound, restraining her far more effectively than anything else could ever possibly do. And they were only enhanced by his smile, so full of devotion and appreciation; but most of all, so full of wicked, endless promise, as he leans his head down to capture her lips with such a delicately soft whisper: “As you command.”

 

 

 


End file.
